Is it an affinity for fine words,
Like those who taste Scotch
To distinguish flavors of
Smoke and earth,
Leather and tobacco?
Or is a poet one who is keen
To his or her surroundings?

For example, would a poet
Notice the old woman
Sitting on a bus from the library
With her hands clasped
On a copy of Hard Times?
Or would a poet simply
Dream up such an occasion
To springboard a write
About the upcoming election?

Sometimes I wonder
How many poets are roaming
The streets where I live.
I'd like to go searching for
A society of underground poets
Who are secretly fashioning
The verse the world needs
For true and lasting change.
They might have a thing or two
To teach an amateur like me.

Midnight as a teenager:
"This is fun!"
Midnight as an adult:
"What have I done?"

On a brisk autumn evening
I became aware of the chorus
Of leaves as I dumped
Another bag of grass
Onto my compost pile.
The changing colors above me
Resounded like waves
Crashing on the ocean shore.
Looking at those branches
Swaying in the breeze
****** my mind to the months ahead.
I will see these same trees
Bare as a skeleton in the frigid air,
Clacking and clicking in the wind.
With that thought I realized:
Even in the dead of winter,
As long as she has breath,
Nature sings her thankful song.

You sure were in the moment
Monday when that opossum
Was laying on the garbage in
Your trash-day trash can, quite
An inconvenience when you're
Trying not to be late for work.

On Tuesday, you had a lot of
Questions for me when, on
Your commute, you saw that
Fawn lifeless on the side of the road.

Why is it that these moments
Make you present to me?
You come with doubting questions,
Ready to put me on trial
When every day I send you
Gifts of love even more
Real than the sting of death:

Did you notice the squirrel
Rushing back to her tree with
An apple the size of her head?
Could you see her there feeding
Her kits - born blind so they
Might learn to trust their maker?

Which reminds me, did you notice
The geese that flew over your head
While you were riding bicycles
With your wife? Were you listening
Carefully enough to translate their
Honking conversation? I remember
They were considering where they
Might stop to rest for the night.
After all, it is a long journey to their
Snowbird mansion - Hole number
Seven at Pinetree Country Club.

Are you present enough to notice
All the beauty, all the glory I've
Squeezed inside your every day life?
Open your eyes for a moment,
Unlock your ears and listen.
I promise you'll see the
Facets of who I really am.

I am but willing prey to the wiles of the full grown moon.
She guards the night sky...
While I patrol these grounds...
Grieving over the seconds that have gone too soon.

I am a vessel... all emptied and barren.
what once was full,
now echoes faint
the glories of yesteryears.
Afloat still, adrift upon the currents... aimless and sullen.

I am a ghost... haunting no one but my own.
Immortalised...
Anchored...
to a body of mist and haze...
Occupying this space where worthy wind had once blown...

I am a beggar offering nothing but my open palms.
Hope etched tight
into my knackered knuckles
and calloused digits.
Please... take them in yours...
soothe them...
grant me your touch, your coveted balm.

.
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's the tears that trickle with radiance through words.
     It's a treasure trove that hides but longs to
     be found.
          It's a book shelved high that wants to
          be read.
               It's the freest of all birds caged but
               unbound...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't beat to the capable strokes of the artist.
     It doesn't pump in the most vibrant of
     colours.
          It doesn't wield a paintbrush to
          translate its thoughts.
               But it can see through the eyes of
               painters...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't conform to the conventional parameters of lyrics.
     It doesn't bind itself to the requirements
     of musical harmony.
          It doesn't follow the conventions of
          genres.
               But it sings its voice loud without
               restrictions of melody...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's an open secret, that whispers in metaphoric codes.
     It's an exploding universe, that merges
     back into galaxies.
          It's a sought after painting, that boasts
          of unfathomable beauty.
               It's an everlasting song, that echoes
               within the poet that embodies...

Our love is like the puzzle pieces
We bought when we were dating,
The ones that came without
The guiding box-top picture.

Day after day you hand
Me pieces of emerald green
Or royal blue.  Some days they're
Orange with a streak of white.

For years now I've been
Lining up the edges,
Linking one piece into another,
But the image remains fragmented.

Now here I am at the end
Of my life, pushing the
Final piece into place.
With tears filling my eyes,

I behold a photograph of you and I
Sitting on our front porch.
Our old, wrinkled hands clasped
As we watch the sprinkler

Move back and forth,
Laughing as our grandchildren
Leap through the streams
That shimmer in the sunset.